And he saw in a flash of perception and gratitude that Johnnie had somehow told Eddie Carstairs something of the truth, and that not only Johnnie, but Eddie Carstairs himself, was trying to help him out, trying to console him and make him feel better, trying to be kind. And he couldn’t bear it, because it made him want to cry.
‘There’s only one thing that’s any good with a certain type of woman, you know,’ went on Eddie. ‘Ask her for what you want, ask her whether she means to give it to you, and if she doesn’t, throw her out of the window.’
They all three laughed at this, because, among other things, he did not use those exact words, but more vulgar, vivid and racy ones. Johnnie laughed shyly, George holding back his tears.
‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘That may sound hard, but that’s all there is to it, and all there ever will be… You remember that, and you won’t go wrong.’
There was a pause, and then Eddie said, ‘Well, here’s the Little Castle, where do we go from here?’
‘Just round there,’ he said, but he could hardly speak.
They found the house, and the car stopped. ‘Shall I see you up?’ said Johnnie, and he said, ‘No, no – no, thanks!’ And Cornford Hobbs shook hands and said, ‘Well, goodbye, Mr Bone. I’m very sorry you’re going. Hope you’ll be better in the morning.’ And all he wanted to do was to get away, so that he didn’t cry.
‘Well, good-bye Mr Carstairs,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much. Thank you really.’
‘Good-bye, George,’ said Mr Carstairs, smiling at him in a peculiarly amiable and knowing way.
‘Sure you wouldn’t like me to see you up?’ said Johnnie – and he said ‘Yes!… Yes!… Thank you, Johnnie… Thank you very much.’ – ‘See you soon,’ said Johnnie. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow when I get back?’ – ‘Yes! Yes!’ he said. ‘Well, goodbye and thank you. Thank you all very much. Good-bye!’ ‘Goodbye!’ they all yelled, and they all waved and the car moved off.
He reached his wretched little room, by lighting matches, and found the gas and lit it. He stood there, holding on to the brass bedstead, the hot tears pouring down his cheeks. He had won at last! He had had the birthday party – not she. He had had the ride in the Rolls – not she. They liked him – not her! Johnnie was his friend not hers, and Eddie Carstairs, the famous Eddie Carstairs of Fitzgerald, Carstairs and Scott, had given him some advice! Oh, God – they were so kind – they weren’t like Netta and Peter – they were kind!
They were the high-ups, they were the stars (whom Netta and Peter envied and schemed to meet), and they were kind! Netta and Peter were not kind: they were the low-downs and harsh and cruel. But he had won after all, and he was right after all, and Johnnie had done it for him – old Bob Barton Johnnie! – and Johnnie was his friend! Oh, God – they had been kind at last to him: at last they had been kind!
He flung himself on the bed, and hid his face in his arms, incontrollably, vastly sobbing, incontrollably, vastly happy.
And then, of course, a little later, something snapped in his head.
The Last Part
MAIDENHEAD
… what your commands imposed
I have performed, as reason was, obeying,
Not without wonder or delight beheld;
Now, of my own accord, such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength yet greater
As with amaze shall strike all who behold.
J. MILTON Samson Agonistes
Chapter One
CLICK!…
He lay on the bed in the dull green gaslight of a little room in Brighton, and it had happened again.
It was an extraordinary sensation, but he was used to it. It was as though a shutter had rolled down on his brain, and clicked tight. It was as though the sound-track in a talkie had broken down and the still-proceeding picture on the screen of existence had an utterly different character, mysterious, silent, indescribably eerie.
It was as though he had dived into a swimming-bath and hit his head on the bottom, and was floating about, bewildered and inaudible to himself, in hushed green depths.
He had never known it click so tight. He felt as though it was locked for good this time, as though it would never click back. He was so confused by it, when it happened, lying with his head buried on his bed, that he couldn’t think where he was or what he was doing.
He was aware of being in his best suit, of feeling cold and trembly, and of his face being wet, evidently with tears. But what it was all about, he couldn’t, for the moment, make out. No doubt he was doing something, had been doing something, and he would find out soon what it was. No doubt he had something to do… Yes, that was it, he had something to do. He had come to wherever he was to do something. He had got to find out what it was. If he didn’t nag at it, if he didn’t ‘press’, as they said in golf, if he just lay peacefully and relaxed, it would come…
He lay and relaxed, wet-faced and weak, in the light of the gas, and soon enough it came quite easily. He had to kill Netta Longdon, and then get to Maidenhead…
Who was Netta Longdon? He couldn’t for the life of him remember. It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t place it… Oh, yes, of course, ‘Netta Longdon’ meant Netta, the Netta he knew and there was such a lot of fuss about… Oh, dear – hadn’t he killed her yet?
He sat up on the bed in the ghastly light. This was awful. He had meant to kill her weeks ago. What had he been doing in the meanwhile? What had stopped him?
Oh, yes – and he had to kill Peter too. He had been just going to kill Peter when something happened. What had happened? What had he been doing all this time?
He was in Brighton – he realized that. Had he been in Brighton all the time? Had he dreamed that he had gone to London and nearly killed Peter? No – there was more to it than that. This was a separate trip. It would all come back soon…
He was trembling, and he had been crying. She had made him tremble and cry. It had all been going on too long – it had all been going on again – and still he hadn’t killed her, and still he hadn’t gone to Maidenhead. What had he been thinking all this time; had he been making more excuses, or had he forgotten about it, or what? It didn’t matter. He must kill her now. He must go to London and kill her at once.
He rose from the bed and stared at the light of the dull, green, midnight, nightmare gas. He must go to London and kill her at once.
He looked at his watch. It was five and twenty past twelve. Could he get a train now? Probably not. Very well then, he would walk. He would walk to London and kill her at once.
What a good idea. He would like a walk, it would clear his head. He would walk the whole way back to London and kill her, and then walk on to Maidenhead. He couldn’t sleep again until he had killed her, and so he had to keep walking, anyway. He was a great walker. And he was able to walk, because he had no luggage. It all fitted in – it was like fate. And he could go now, because he could remember paying a deposit – he had given the woman a pound.
He could go just as he was, unencumbered. It was all arranged.
He put out the gas, and lit a match, and groped his way down the stairs, and let himself out of the little house in the little Brighton street. The rain had stopped, and it was a fair, breezy night
There was nobody about, except an occasional policeman, and the echoing streets were so cool and fresh that he wondered more people didn’t walk to London like him, instead of stuffing in trains. They had lost the use of their legs.
He passed Brighton Pavilion, and then the big church, and was soon well on the London road going under the vast Roman-aqueducty bridge. Then along by Preston Park and Withdean Nurseries, and out to Patcham with its petrol pumps and church. Then out on the great motor road, with its two white pillars, saying you were in Brighton, and on to Pyecombe. He meant to go via Hassocks and Burgess Hill. Occasionally a motor-car or lorry blinded and flashed by him.
Dawn was in the sky as he climbed the long, slow slope of Clayton Hill, with its windmills and strange littl
e forts – funnels from the great black dreadnought which was the tunnel beneath – and when he reached the top the sun had risen and he could see the whole shire stretched out and gleaming in mauve, rook-calling mist below. He did not feel weary, but it occurred to him that he had a long way to go.
Then it occurred to him that he had made a mistake. He was supposed to be walking to London to kill Netta, but actually Netta was in Brighton. Also he had forgotten – he kept on forgetting things, it was getting bad – that he had to kill Peter too. Oh, well – it didn’t matter. She would be going back to London today, and they would both be ready for him.
Half an hour later he was so tired and weak that he realized he would have to rest He sat down by the roadside, and lit a cigarette, and dozed off as he sat the swish of a passing car every now and again interrupting his heart-beat and disturbing his reverie…
It was broad daylight when he went on again, and he realized he would have to give in and go to bed. somewhere. He couldn’t remember quite why it was that he had to walk to London instead of taking a train, but he was sure that was how the thing stood.
He branched off to Hassocks, and found a pub opposite the station, where they stared at him, but, on his producing money, gave him breakfast and a room. He drew the curtains to, and undressed and slept in his shirt.
He did not wake till half past five in the evening. He went out in a dazed way and bought a paper at the station to see what day it was, and saw they had gone into Poland. He supposed that meant war.
He didn’t go back to the hotel, but began to walk on again to London. He now saw that there was no need to walk to London at all: he could easily take a train, and he didn’t know how the idea had got into his head. Muddle again. But he knew this part of the country, and he had a fancy to see Apple Lodge, a little farmhouse, with cows and a donkey and ducks, where he had stayed as a child and been happy, before they sent him to school and made him miserable. It was on the way to Burgess Hill, and he would like to have a look at it, as when he had got to Maidenhead there would be no coming away and looking at anything like that again.
He passed it in the dusk, and said good-bye, and walked on to Burgess Hill, where he found himself exhausted again, and where they seemed to have no street lighting. He found another pub near the station. He had some beers in the saloon bar, and they were all talking about Poland and the war. It bored him stiff, though he realized that it was rather useful actually, that they should be having their war while he was killing Netta and going to Maidenhead, because that way he would get out of the war too. Netta and Peter! – he mustn’t forget Peter! It kept on slipping from his mind.
He went to bed early and slept long and late. He was not up till half past ten, but they gave him some breakfast in a parlour. After this he found a barber’s and had a shave. It was all war, war, everywhere. The barber went on about it all the time. He supposed it interested people in a small place like Burgess Hill, because they had nothing else to think about.
He had quite a few beers after that, and worked out exactly how he would do Netta in. He had a longing for some yellow pickles he saw on the bar, and ate them ravenously with an arrowroot biscuit.
He looked out trains and there wasn’t a decent one till after four o’clock, and as he wasn’t at all impatient now, he went to the local picture theatre and saw ‘Tarzan Finds a Son’, with Johnnie Weissmuller and Maureen O’Sullivan.
He didn’t get into London until nearly six o’clock, and when he came out at Victoria Station he thought he was having a liver attack because the sky was full of distant gnats. These were barrage balloons. They were getting down to it now all right. He was only just in time.
He had some drinks at the ‘Shakespeare’ opposite Victoria, and everybody was very excited. There was a strange atmosphere altogether. Then he went back to the station and tried to phone Netta to make sure she’d be there tomorrow, but he couldn’t get her. Then he went into a draper’s shop to buy some thread, because he had decided at Burgess Hill that that would be necessary, so that nothing was disturbed.
The girl asked him what colour thread he wanted and what it was for. He couldn’t explain, of course, and he said any colour would do. He came out with four reels of grey thread. Then he went to a shop he knew in Victoria Street which provided things for dogs, and bought a basket for a cat. He had decided to take pussy with him. He put the reels of thread into the basket and carried them into another pub, feeling rather like a fisherman.
He had a lot of whisky to drink because he had a lot to think about, and because this was his last night on whisky and he might as well enjoy it. When he got to Maidenhead he would only be having an occasional beer. He went from pub to pub and the wirelesses were going in all of them, and people were listening, but he couldn’t be bothered. The streets were pitch black because they had put all the lights out. At eleven o’clock he got a taxi to his hotel.
He found the white cat in the bathroom and brought it into his bedroom, and put it into the basket to see if it would fit. It fitted all right, but the cat didn’t like it, and sprang out. He undressed and got into bed. The cat came in with him, and they both slept.
He woke up at about three o’clock in the morning of Sunday, September the third, nineteen hundred and thirty-nine, with the cat still beside him, and realized that he would be unable to take the cat to Maidenhead after all, because the cat was a bit of Earl’s Court, and if a bit of Earl’s Court, however small, got into Maidenhead, it would upset Maidenhead completely. This made him miserable, because he loved the cat, and saw that this was the last time they would ever be together. ‘I’m sorry, pussy,’ he said, ‘but you can’t come with me after all.’ And he hugged the cat closely, and even kissed it, and went to sleep again, while it purred.
Chapter Two
He awoke at seven and had a bath and dressed. At eight o’clock he went down to the hotel phone, and phoned Netta.
She was, of course, angry at being phoned at such an hour, but he couldn’t bother about things like that.
‘What?…’ she said. ‘It’s only eight o’clock. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘I only just wanted to know if you were there – whether I could come round and see you this morning.’
‘No,’ she said in her old bad-tempered way. ‘I’m afraid you can’t. I’m going out.’
‘When will you be going out?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said rudely. ‘When I get up… It’s eight o’clock now.’
‘Did you get back from Devon all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right you are, Netta,’ he said, ‘sorry. I’ll phone you some other time… Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
He didn’t mind about her saying she was going out and not wanting to see him. He just wanted to know she was there. He could get in with the key she had given him when she was ill.
Next he phoned Peter, who was almost equally rude. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I just thought I’d phone you to see if you’d got back.’
‘Yes. I’m back,’ said Peter. ‘What do you want? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, I just wondered whether I’d be seeing you about. It’s a long time since we met.’
‘Look here, I’m in bed,’ said Peter, and a few moments later they rang off. He only wanted to know that Peter was there.
He then had breakfast alone (the first in the dining-room instead of the last as usual), and then went for a walk to the top of the Earl’s Court Road and back again to his hotel.
He went up to his untidy, slept-in room, meaning to pack a bag, but found one already packed for the journey he had meant to take with Netta a few days ago. It was odd how always everything fitted in. He took the reels of thread from the basket he had bought for the cat, and put them into his pockets. Until this moment he had had no feeling of nervousness, but when he came to say good-bye to the cat, which still lay asleep on the dishevelled bedclothes, he had a slight feeling of not being altogether calm �
�� a feeling like the feeling you got just before you went on the stage in the plays they did at the end of term at school, or before you had an important interview to get a job. This was really final. ‘Good-bye, pussy,’ he said, and kissed it again. It blinked its eyes lazily, but did not open them, and, not daring to look at it again, he walked out of the room.
He walked out into the Earl’s Court Road, and by the time he had reached her house he had lost his nervousness completely. It was five and twenty to eleven. He walked up the bleak stone stairs and let himself in with the key she had given him when she was ill.
He walked into the sitting-room, and heard her call out from the bedroom, ‘Hullo – who’s that?’
‘It’s all right,’ he called back. ‘It’s only me.’
Chapter Three
There was no answer, and he heard her geyser bath-water running into the bath in the bathroom off the little hall.
A few moments later she came out from her bedroom, and looking at him irritably yet curiously, said, ‘How did you get in here? What do you want? I’m going out’ She was dressed in pyjamas and dressing-gown.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I only came to give you back your key.’ And he showed it to her and put it on the mantelpiece.
‘Oh…’ she said, and went back into her bedroom.
A few moments later she came out of her bedroom, with a sponge-bag and a bottle of nail varnish in her hands, and, passing through on her way to the bathroom, stopped to take a cigarette from a box on the table, and to light it.
‘Do you mind if I stay a bit,’ he said, ‘while you have your bath?’
‘No,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘But I’m going out afterwards. I’ve got a date.’ And she went into the bathroom.
She didn’t properly close the door of the bathroom (she never did) and he heard the water still running in. He knew that she wouldn’t be able to hear him because of the running water, and he at once went into her bedroom, to her phone, and dialled Peter.
Hangover Square Page 26
